


The animal inside

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, darwinian seduction techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a virgin and Sherlock has read too many zoology texts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink meme [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=374079#t374079) for John as virgin and Sherlock experienced.

Being a male virgin at 17 was statistically about average. Being one at 27 was unusual, but might be explained by strong religious principles or unusually late development. Being one at 37, thought John, made him a good case-study for a psychology journal. The fact that he was gay should not have changed the outcome significantly, not in 21st century London, anyhow. But he did, at least, have the partial excuse of the really crappy timing of his life.

He'd just started secondary school when the big AIDS scare had happened, all those adverts with 'Don't die of ignorance' in huge letters across them. Who'd have wanted to believe they were gay then? He'd spent so much of his adolescence and early twenties telling himself that if he could just find the right girl, a sympathetic girl, he would be able to do it with her, it wouldn't end in panicked disaster.

And when he had finally accepted what he was, well, not accepted, but at least diagnosed, there was still nothing he could do about it. Dared do about it. He did not want to take even a small chance of dying nastily of unusual opportunistic infections. He could list the six most common symptoms of AIDS, any medical student could, and he didn't want any of them. Even once people had learnt to protect themselves and the new drugs meant HIV was no longer a death sentence, there were still two huge barriers for him. He was a doctor, and they would not let surgeons with HIV operate. And he was a soldier and the army kicked you out if they found you were gay.

But of course, he was kidding himself that it had simply been these sensible, even rational, reasons that had kept him a virgin. He didn't want hedonism even if he was gay, since he was gay. He wanted someone he loved to sleep with, but he had somehow been born a gay without gaydar. The men he'd fallen hard for had all been straight, unbendably straight. And all the while John was involuntarily giving off waves of heterosexuality. How else to explain how he kept on having women fall for him?

Not all women, of course, he wasn't vain enough to believe that. But there were certain types of women to whom he was weirdly irresistible. The emotionally volatile, often frankly unstable girls at university, who had recognised instinctively his ability to reassure and care for people, but hadn't yet realised that you could separate sympathy from sex. And later the women who wanted to comfort him, have him tell them his sorrows. They could sense that something was going on inside him, even if none of the men he wanted could. But how could he tell these kind, patient women, who wanted to give him love and tenderness, that what he would really like was some good tips on seducing men? By the time it had dawned on him that he should ask Harry for that bit of advice, she was drinking too much to stay reliably silent. And he could not have stood the pity in Clara's eyes if she'd known that he was a virgin.

So even though they'd allowed gays in the military for ten years now, he hadn't come out. It would have been doubly hard to, once he'd perfected his camouflage. He'd become the hopeless idiot who lusted after women, but somehow always did something too crass or ridiculous at a key moment and turned them off. But that didn't worry his friends, because old John would always be up for it if you wanted a bawdy night out when you were on leave.

You could get away with doing, not doing, a lot of things if you were always just that bit more sober than your friends. And the point about prostitutes was that they were interested in money, not sex, and were prepared not to touch you, at least if you offered them enough. Though there had been that god-awful time in Bangkok...When he'd told the woman, girl almost, she'd offered to find him a ladyboy instead. For a moment he'd been tempted, but then he'd known not to. It would screw his mind up even further, he'd end up the world's first bisexual virgin.

And by then, of course, the war had started, and all thought of finding someone had left him. It was bad enough to see your comrades die and know about the grieving partners they'd left behind. How much worse to see your lover die, or know that your own death would destroy someone else's world? There was no room for that kind of sentiment now, not for him.

By the time he'd got back to London, it was too late for him. No, it had always been too late for him, he was going to be celibate for life. But it was survivable: he'd survived worse things. And when he died they wouldn't be able to tell from the autopsy what he was, what he was not. He was already automatically falling into the same old concealing pattern of unsuccessful relationships with women. The ones where he'd always somehow move just slowly or clumsily enough that she would get bored and dump him, before he slept with her. Failed to sleep with her.

***

It would have been OK, well, survivable, if he hadn't met and fallen in love with a man who wasn't straight. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't gay either. John had been so conscious of hashing up his side of the conversation at Angelo's that he hadn't really taken in the full implications of Sherlock's comments then. He'd even briefly kidded himself that if he could just work out the right moves to make, he might be able to seduce Sherlock. But he'd been an idiot, he realised now, anyone but an idiot would have picked up on the signs that Sherlock was celibate too. Only he was happy about it.

At least Sherlock was an equal opportunities asexual: as prepared not to sleep with men as with women. For a time, John had indulged himself a little: occasionally, he looked at Sherlock for a little too long, or collapsed laughing against him, or stumbled against him when he was tired enough to make such a slip seem plausible. Sherlock wouldn't get turned on, so it needn't get out of hand. He probably wouldn't even notice.

Except that morning, John had pushed it too far. When they'd just come home and got into the hallway, Sherlock had suddenly grabbed John and started dancing around, yelling something about having worked out now how the butter proved that Tom Abernetty was innocent. Only somehow, it had ended up not with Sherlock holding John, but John holding Sherlock, and even through Sherlock's elation, John felt him abruptly recognise the difference. Sherlock froze, and John's hands dropped to his side. And then Sherlock turned, and without a word, went upstairs.

After a minute or so John followed him. Running away from a situation was never, could never be an option. Besides, if you'd done something really outrageous, sometimes if you simply denied it had happened, people could be fooled into not trusting their own senses. It was one of the techniques confidence tricksters used.

Sherlock didn't get taken in by confidence tricksters. But sometimes, even if someone knew you'd crossed way over the line, they'd be prepared to say nothing further if you kept quiet. It was a tactful way of dealing with an impossible position.

Sherlock wasn't tactful. It was _painful_ when he tried to be tactful. But, nevertheless, John went upstairs and into the flat, and sat down in his chair, and reached for the remote control, because he had absolutely no idea of what else to do. Sherlock was in the kitchen, John could hear him, banging around in there, up to something. Maybe this was his way of trying to be tactful, waiting till John had remembered how to...behave. He could do this, if he was just more careful to avoid getting close to Sherlock when he was happy and his guard came down. Where the hell was some psychosomatic pain to distract you when you needed it?

***

He realised how far the thing had gone when Sherlock came back into the living room and held out a mug of tea to him. He took it wordlessly, fumbled with the drink, and finally forced himself to look up into Sherlock's steady, analytical gaze. The pain in his head grew ever greater in the silence, and at last he had to say something.

"I'm sorry," he said despairingly. "I didn't mean to."

"I know, but you...you want to," said Sherlock calmly, "And I can't give you what you need. Which means-"

"-that I need to learn to control myself better. "

"No, it means that you have to go out to a gay bar tonight, pick someone up, and fuck yourself senseless."

"I can't!"

"John, this is London. There are tens of thousands of people out there in the city right now looking to fuck someone tonight, many of them gay. One of them, at least, will be happy to do it with you."

"I don't want that!" John yelled. He closed his eyes, but he knew that tears were leaking out of them.

"Then what do you want, John, and why can't you find it?" It was a question, not, thank God, the start of an argument.

"I am a virgin!" John forced out, "a fucking virgin!"

Sherlock's voice was clinical: "Why?"

***

It all came out then, twenty years of pent-up pain, garbled, incoherent, dragging emotions out from himself till his guts hurt. And Sherlock...sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, didn't touch him or say anything, just passed him a box of tissues and listened. He didn't ask questions, he didn't interrupt to say he knew the answer already, and he didn't even tell John he was being boring, even though John knew he was saying the same things over and over again. At last John ground to a halt; only then did Sherlock scramble up, go into the kitchen and return with a packet of chocolate biscuits and a glass of water, both of which he plonked in front of John.

"Have a biscuit," he told John, and when John didn't respond immediately, demanded: "Eat some of the bloody biscuits, before you pass out. We can't sort this out unless you're conscious."

John took a biscuit, several, God he was hungry, and it might stop him trembling. He suddenly remembered an evening at university, in his second year, when he'd comforted someone like this. He could see her now, Lisa, with her sweet smile and her messed-up mind. But of course, he realised now, she'd been absolutely normal compared to him. He looked up at Sherlock, who was leaning against the mantelpiece, watching him, decoding him.

"Is there anything more you need to tell me?" asked Sherlock.

"No." John's tongue had run down, there was nothing left to say. He supposed he should do something, not just sit in this chair for the rest of his life. He supposed he should...

"Go to bed, John." said Sherlock.

"What? It's..." he started vaguely at his watch. "2.30 pm".

"And you're exhausted, and I need to think. Go. Now! Even if you can't sleep, just go and lie down and try to make your mind go blank, I can't do this if you're distracting me by suffering!"

John did what he was told. And as he lay on his bed, feeling like a man who'd done a twenty-mile route march, at least his mind wasn't circling round now, trying to get out of the trap of his own body. It was too late for that now, there was nothing more to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a virgin and Sherlock has a problem to solve. What could possibly go wrong?]

John must have dozed, because Sherlock was shaking his shoulder, telling him to sit up, and it was getting dark in the flat, and it was seven o'clock, how could it be seven o'clock? Sherlock was striding around his bedroom manically, he must have been using god knows how many-

"You know you were a four patch problem, "said Sherlock, "but I've worked it out, I can see what we have to do now."

  
"I don't-"

"Just shut up and listen." Sherlock was obviously back to normal, even if he wasn't. "Now, can you follow a logical train of thought or are you so emotionally drained that your mind's turned to toast?"

It hurt to think, but: "I'll listen, Sherlock, just don't go too fast." He closed his eyes, focusing on the clear voice breaking into his pain-wearied mind.

"When you strip away the irrelevant details," Sherlock began, "your practical situation is quite simple. You're a virgin and you don't want to be. Unfortunately, you have an unusual aversion to meaningless sex, and a quite perverse attachment to romance. But you're unable to pursue anyone romantically because you're scared they'll laugh at your inexperience. Is that correct?"

"And I'm gay."

"That merely alters the odds of finding someone, not the underlying principles. So am I right? Is my description of your problem accurate?"

Sherlock was a bastard even when he was trying to help. "Yes, John said. "Pathetic, isn't it?"

"Stick to facts, not emotions. There are therefore two obvious options. The first is to overcome your aversion to sex without love, the second is to find someone you do love so you can have sex with them. The first is obviously the better option. Combining sex and love is like mixing oil and water."

"You really mean that, don't you?"

"I know that. Do you remember your first orgasm? No, I'm theorising ahead of my data. Have you ever masturbated?"

"Of course, what kind of weirdo do you think-" John broke off. "Yes, I have."

"And do you remember the physical sensation of the first time? Not what you imagined, but what your body felt?"

"I don't know how to describe it."

"I sometimes wonder if the army gave you a vocabulary bypass. Then let me tell you what it was like when I first properly masturbated. It was like putting my hand on an electric fence. Only stickier, of course. I hadn't known my body could be so thrilling since I realised I could dislocate and relocate my own thumb. Is it like that for you, John, that kind of physical sensation?"

"Er...yes."

"Good, there's a healthy animal lurking somewhere inside that confused body of yours."

"Sherlock!"

"John, we are animals and that is why we want to fuck, because it feels so good. Our genes' way of fooling us into serving their ends. Of course, humans are clever enough animals to work out how to get the same mind-blowing sensation without anyone else around."

John was sure he was hallucinating now. Well, someone was hallucinating.  "What has this to do with anything?"

"I'm explaining to you about sex."

"I'm a doctor, remember."

"Yes, which means you're just clever enough to confuse yourself completely. Listen to me, because I can explain what you need to know. After I learnt to masturbate, I became obsessed with the sensation. Sneaking away for more of it whenever I could. Do you know about the addiction experiments they did with rats?"

"Rats?"

"They had rats in a box who they taught to press a lever to get food. And another lever, wired up so it'd give a shock right into the pleasure centre of the rat's brain. Do you know what happened to those rats, John?"

He'd heard about those sort of experiments, but his mind was so slow now it was like wading through treacle. Sherlock couldn't wait.

"Some of the rats worked out how to press that second lever, the one that gave them that brain rush. And then they kept on pushing it again and again. They didn't stop for food or drink, they just kept on pushing that magic lever, till they collapsed, till they died."

"I don't see-" John began.

"I was becoming that rat, John, I'm an animal too, we're all animals really, we just try and forget it. But then one day I tamed the animal." John was trying to work out if this was a metaphor or not, but Sherlock had already started up again.

"I went up to my room one day, to masturbate, and I suddenly realised: this is boring! Why I am trying to find oblivion when it's not what my brain really wants? And so I sat there, and I picked up a book, a book on psychology I had, and suddenly I wasn't shutting down my brain anymore, I was opening it up. And it was a better rush than I'd ever had from playing myself. I didn't have to be just an animal now, I was more than an animal. And-"

"- and you lived happily and chastely ever after." said John bitterly. "I'm sorry, but if reading textbooks was the solution, I'd have been cured long ago."

"No, you've misunderstood me, It's not me who's the virgin here. O God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to come out that way." Sherlock had never apologised to John before. He didn't know what to say, but Sherlock was getting going again.

"I didn't give up sex, I just wasn't controlled by my need for it any more. You can choose to eat even if you're not starving." Only Sherlock could make that sound vaguely perverted. "And I wanted to, to see what it was like when someone else was involved. Two animals together. So when I had my first real chance, at university, I experimented. It wasn't the same, of course. It's not as pure a pleasure when you're with someone else, as when you're alone, it's more complex and diffuse, isn't it? Well, I suppose you wouldn't know."

What was that old joke, thought John. Masturbation is having sex with someone you really love. Probably true for Sherlock. But it seemed unfair that he had to be the one to keep this conversation on track.

"I thought we were discussing my sex life," he said, "not yours. My non-sex life."

"The point is, John, that at university I worked out what the real problem with sex was. Love."

"You found people having sex without love at university? That's not that unusual, Sherlock."

"No, I saw people lying about love to get sex. I saw people offering sex to try and get love. I saw people overlaying a simple normal animal desire to fuck someone with manipulation and deceit and lies. And I was one of them. I learned every way to use fucking people to fuck with their minds for fun."

"Women? Men?"

"Both. Why would I have wanted to limit myself to manipulating only half the student population? But I went too far, of course."

"That figures."

"Someone I was playing games with didn't realise it was just a game. So he ended up taking an overdose."

"O God, Sherlock."

"It was worse than that." There was a different note in Sherlock's voice now, one that John recognised: self-contempt. "He didn't die, he was just brain-damaged. I went to see him in the hospital, I thought that was what people did. And I heard him try to talk, and my skin was crawling, and I ran out of there."

"If I'd known that, I would never have-" John began.

"No, it's not trauma, I don't know I can feel something like that, it's not in me. But I didn't, I don't want to be an active force for evil. I know I'm cruel sometimes, but I try to remember not to be."

Sherlock had fallen silent now, and at last John looked up. Sherlock's long body was draped against the wall, staring at him, waiting...A wave of irritation swept through John. 

"Oh, stop being so bloody melodramatic!"

Sherlock grinned: "And there I was thinking for a moment you might be romantic enough, stupid enough to wish you'd been at college with me. Doesn't staying a virgin at uni start to sound quite sensible now? You're not like that really are you, John? Not a big enough idiot to think it worth dying for me?"

The pause lengthened. At last, Sherlock said: "What I meant is, deliberately killing yourself, not accidentally taking a bullet or a bomb for me. I know you're stupid enough to do that."

"If you just want to lounge around in my bedroom and insult me," said John, "do you think you could please wait until I'm feeling a bit better?"

"I had to explain to you about love, John, show you the twisted horrors inside romance."

"Have you ever considered that getting your views of romance from crime scenes is probably a bit distorting?"

"Molly's not dead."

"Well, she's probably not a virgin either!"

"The observable signs indicate-"

"No, Sherlock, no!" John shouted. "We're not talking about Molly. We're talking...about the fact that humans aren't just animals. If you can't stand romance, at least acknowledge tenderness. That 's real, even you can see that, surely."

"You can have tenderness after sex, but not during it, not if you're doing it right. And even the tenderness afterwards, it's just trying to be kind to the animal you've been fucking, the animal who's been fucking you." Sherlock paused. "I'm not convincing you, am I?"

 John shook his head.

"You are a stubborn man, John Watson. Well, if you can't separate sex and feelings, and it seems you can't – do you know how much simpler a sociopath's sex live is than the average? – then we have to find someone you can be tender to. Who can be tender to you. After you've fucked, obviously."

"There isn't anyone."

"There must be somewhere. I've tracked down a single man in the whole of Britain before now for a murder. Even allowing for your orientation and your conservative tastes, there must be a pool of several thousand I can find for you. I mean, you can find for yourself with my assistance."

"There's a third option." said John. "We carry on as before. Because you'll have to drive me away, I'm not going voluntarily."

"Do you know how long it is till the expected end of the universe?"

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"More than a hundred trillion years. And it'll probably still happen before I can feel for you what you want me to."

"It's fine." said John.

"Of course it's not. I don't mind you loving me, because for some peculiar reason it doesn't turn your brain to romantic mush. But you needing me, and driving yourself to destruction because of that, that's different. You can't cage the animal forever."

"I've done bloody well for 37 years. I can manage a few more."

"If you were doing that well, we wouldn't be having this conversation. So it has to be me finding you another animal, or, God help me, your own true love."

"No." John glared at Sherlock. He couldn't out-talk him, he couldn't outstare him, but he could, under certain circumstances, outlast him.

Sherlock smiled confidently. "Fortunately, for either option, the first step is the same. You fuck me."

That means it has to be my hallucination, not Sherlock's, thought John.

"You haven't asked why." Sherlock added eventually.

"I'm waiting for you to start turning into Lestrade," said John, "or possibly a cactus."

"Can't you see the logic of it? Isn't it obvious? Well, maybe it's only so to an outside observer. You have some major hang-ups about sex, obviously connected to your virginity. You lose that, and you either discover you enjoy mindless sex, or at least you have some experience to bring to any future relationship. And of course, an anecdote or two to tell about how your last partner was a manipulative bastard, and that's always a handy icebreaker on a date."

"Sherlock, I-"

"I don't know if you've got the nervous energy left to have sex, but you certainly don't have enough to argue with me and then have sex. So stand up and face me now, because I'm going to start taking my clothes off."

"Why does it have to be me doing something to you?" said John, as he pushed himself slightly giddily onto the floor.

"I don't have time to explain the details now, it'd take all night, and I need to sort out Tom Abernetty as well."

"What?"

"The case I'm supposed to be solving, rather than this. Well, I guess I can manage both."

How could someone sound so arrogant while clad only in a pair of blue silk boxer shorts, thought John. Which...didn't leave a lot to the imagination about Sherlock's own state.

"You could...fuck me," he said slowly. "You'd know what you were doing, for a start. And who knows, you might even enjoy it."

Sherlock had realised now that John was staring at his erection. There was an expression in his pale eyes that John had never seen before, and when he spoke, for the first time he sounded older than John.

"John. My dear, sweet John. If my body reacted like this to you, we could work something out between us, whatever my feelings. Two happy animals together. But it's finding the solution that turns me on, it's not you, John, it's nothing to do with you."

***

John realised after a minute or so that he wasn't actually dead. He hadn't just trodden on an IED, he was still standing in his bedroom. And Sherlock was undoing the buttons on John's shirt...

"The resilience of your nervous system never ceases to amaze me. You are apparently still up for this, so we need to do it now. Take your trousers and pants off and then come to my room." Sherlock turned and strode out.

 I can follow Sherlock and have sex, John thought, I can follow Sherlock and argue, or I can stay here and do neither. He started to strip.

As John came into the bedroom, Sherlock looked up from where he was rummaging in a drawer and threw something small at him. John missed the catch, his reflexes were still shot to hell, and gingerly retrieved the object from the floor.

"Given some of your hang-ups, you'll probably feel safer with protection." Sherlock paused and asked cautiously, "Do you know how to put it on?"

"We had pretty explicit sex education lessons at school", said John. "They included putting condoms on bananas."

"Well, it's the same principle, it's just now you get to see it from the banana's point of view. Take it slowly." Sherlock added, as John fumbled with the packet. John managed it at last and looked up. Sherlock was now kneeling naked on the bed, arranging pillows.

"Lube's on the bedside table, you'll need lots of it. Doggy style seems most appropriate somehow. You know the basic anatomy, so it's just a case of getting the angles and the coefficients of friction right. Come over here and I'll tell you what to do next."

***

"Your left leg over a fraction more, you have more leverage, and you're less likely to get cramp," said Sherlock. "At this point I should probably start whispering lewd things to encourage you, but that's the part I find really tedious, so you'll just have to imagine your own personal porn soundtrack. OK, now it's time to go."

"I don't know-"

"But the animal does know what to do, listen to it. And you're also a soldier, and so you know there is a time for talking and there is a time for action. Now is the time to advance, and target your enemy's weak spot, and penetrate his defences. My God, that's surprisingly dirty, isn't it? You can do it John, the animal can."

He'd dreamt once, more than once, about Sherlock exclaiming 'That's good, John', as he pushed himself into Sherlock's fabulous rear, but he'd imagined the tone as ecstatic, not the encouraging voice of a teacher to a particularly slow pupil.

"Further in," Sherlock added,  "If I need you to stop I'll tell you, but till then keep going."

It was the most peculiar, staggering sensation, masturbation was nothing like this, it didn't embrace his cock like this, envelop it. And then Sherlock twitched his hips...and the animal inside John was free. And yes, he, it did know how to move in rhythm  with Sherlock, and where to push, and his hands were pulling at Sherlock's pale shoulders, the rat had found the lever now, hadn't it? And then, then, then...

He was collapsed on Sherlock, in Sherlock, and he wasn't entirely sure that all his limbs were still attached, and he had absolutely no idea what to do next. But fortunately Sherlock was telling him, and he was sprawled in a soggy heap at the side of the bed now, and he ought to do something in return for Sherlock, but Sherlock had slipped off the bed and had already somehow managed to get his trousers on. And was obviously about to start giving him more orders, this bit at least was just like the army. He struggled to roll over.

"Lie still! Your body is probably confused and your mind certainly is, and if you try and push yourself any further you'll collapse."

"Shower," John croaked.

"Leave it till tomorrow, I'm sure you've slept in filthier places. Don't argue, you are now officially an ex-virgin, so good night and sleep well." The lights went out and Sherlock closed the bedroom door. And John lay there in the darkness and did not even try to think, because, yes, thinking could be over-rated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is now an ex-virgin, but Sherlock's still a sociopath.

John had woken up in worse physical states than this one, but they had normally involved previous drinking or traumatic injury. He was incredibly dehydrated - sweat, or maybe just all the crying - and his limbs had been reconnected overnight with slightly too taut elastic, so he now had an intermittent tremor everywhere in his body, not just one hand. But once he'd showered and shaved and dressed - Sherlock must have brought in a change of clothes in the night – he decided he could function, if not normally, at least approximately like a human. He went into the kitchen and made himself eat a proper breakfast. You could always fall back on routines if you had no clue what to do next.

By the time he'd finished he could hear Sherlock in the living room, on his computer. As he went in, Sherlock closed the laptop abruptly - he was up to something, wasn't he? - and came across to stand in front of John.

He forced himself to look into Sherlock's eyes, make it easy for Sherlock to read him.

"You're not dead, you're not injured, you're not insane, and you're not even miserable." said Sherlock. "Welcome to the ordinary joys of the sexually active."

By the time John had worked out a response to that, Sherlock had already danced away, and was perched on the table beside his laptop.

"I was right, John, wasn't I, I was right? There is a normal animal inside you, and now you have choices."

John could feel the tremor start to pull his arms back. "Sherlock-"

"Sit down, you're making the room vibrate. That's better. We need to work out now what you do this evening."

"It's barely morning yet."

"Try to keep up. I'm tied up this afternoon, not literally, but after that there are two options. One is that now you know how you have sex, we find you someone to practise with. I know people who can tell you the places to go, and what to say, and how to dress-"

"No, absolutely not, no!" Was he really going to have to go through this all again?

"In that case, we're back to option two and we spend this evening drafting you a lonely hearts ad. I'd say the Daily Telegraph personal column is your best bet, but I can't remember if they take adverts from men looking for men."

"You want me to put an ad in the Daily Telegraph?"

"You wouldn't get on well with gay Guardian readers."

There was nothing worth saying, thought John, as he held Sherlock's gaze. If Sherlock couldn't work it out – how could anyone be that slow? – there was no point in trying to explain.

"Oh fuck!" said Sherlock abruptly, and for the first time it wasn't just for effect. "I've been over-confident, haven't I? Too clever by half, trying to solve all your problems at once. I didn't make last night meaningless enough, did I?"

He could scream, or he could swear, or he could try and make a joke of it, John thought, and only making a joke had any chance of getting them through this thing still sane.

"No, it wasn't meaningless." He managed a smile. He was good at smiling. "Quite animal though."

"Not tender or romantic, was it? I certainly wasn't at all romantic, and nor were you...or even gentle."

"The tenderness comes afterwards, you were right about that."

"Tenderness?"

"Definite hints of tenderness," said John. "Absolutely no romance though, a very clinical debauchment."

"Hints of tenderness? You have must an appalling low threshold, I'd say. I suppose it's from being in the army."

Now it's was John's turn for the next joke, the one that pushed the reset button, put their relationship – relationship? – back where it had been. And he couldn't think of what to say.

"John, I told you to go to sleep and I brought your clothes in. That's not tenderness, that's barely civil."

"The thing is, if...," John said slowly, and came to a halt. And for once Sherlock didn't interrupt, and even his fidgeting was reduced to keeping on looking at his watch. "If by...fucking another animal, you've satisfied your own simple animal needs, it's only natural, only human, to be tender then, just from gratitude. But if you don't have those animal needs, you feel nothing, why on earth should you show any tenderness afterwards to the animal you've let fuck you?"

And now it was Sherlock struggling for words, until he suddenly burst out: "Kindness to a dumb animal, because it's not his fault he's a poor dumb animal and wants to keep pushing the lever. And that's what I've done, isn't it? Shown you what levers to press?"

"Yes, but I don't have to."

"You can say that now, John, the animal's been fed and it's back in its cage. You don't need me right now, do you? You might want me, but you don't need me."

"You're not that bloody irresistible, you know, Sherlock!" John burst out, and couldn't help adding:   "And stop looking at me like that, I do not want you deducing things about me, and I am not currently your problem!"

"But you are still my problem, if I don't drive you away. I could, you know."

"Yes. Or you could also drive me to strangle you, and who knows, maybe I would find that a turn-on."

"You wouldn't. I'd know the signs by now if you did. The way to tell is-"

"Shut up and stop looking at your bloody watch!" But he knew he couldn't sustain his anger, that was too easy a way out, and besides they had to get things straight.  "Do you really want me to leave?"

"Do you know why I keep on looking at my watch?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

"Because at 8.53 I'm going to get an urgent message from Lestrade saying I'm needed over in Reigate, and to come immediately and alone."

"And you know this, because...because it's a fake message you fixed up just now, so you can get away from me. How exactly are you going to manipulate me if you tell me the details beforehand? That's not one of your better plans, Sherlock."

"I wasn't going to tell you, I was going to let you work it out after I was gone. And you would have worked it out, because although I call you stupid sometimes, you're not really and you would have got there in the end. And it would have reminded you just what a manipulative, uncaring bastard I was, and...and it still wouldn't have been enough, would it? To get you to walk away?"

"No, sorry, you'd need to do something a lot worse than that. Though I'd prefer it if you didn't, obviously. And you did say you were trying to stop being cruel." There were times when it was oddly easier to talk to Sherlock than anyone normal.

"But aren't I being cruel, an active force for evil, in letting you stay?"

John folded his arms. "I don't see it that way, no."

"But you have needs, and I can't...I really can't handle more scenes like yesterday morning." Sherlock said, and there was a rawness now in his voice. "And if I let you stay, how do I, we stop it happening again and again? All that emotion, that pain. I could hardly breathe, just feeling the waves of it off you, the chaos. How do you bear it, John?"

"Well I bear your bloody emotions, Sherlock," John snapped, "and there's a hell of a lot more of them. Yesterday was 37 years accumulating, so cut me some slack, will you?" He paused and added more slowly."I will go when I choose to, and not before, and if that irritates you, you can always resort to more bogus callouts. Or even just tell me the truth."

"If you stay, we'll have to figure out a way to deal with your needs, the animal inside you, so it doesn't drive you crazy."

"I can manage."

"Not alone. Between us we'll have to work something out."

The temptation was almost overwhelming then to ask Sherlock what he had felt last night, if he'd found any pleasure of his own. As he opened his mouth, Sherlock's phone went off. 8.53. By the time Sherlock had silenced the call, John knew he couldn't stand to hear the answer, whatever it was. 

"I could," he said at last, "try to tame the animal, the way you have." I've just discovered sex, he thought, and I'm already offering to try and give it up. I really do have crappy timing.

Sherlock's phone started ringing again. 8.56.

"Sherlock, what on earth are you up to?"

Sherlock looked up from the call. This one's not my doing. Lestrade needs me right now."

"Reigate?"

"Clapham. There's another body turned up in the Abernetty case, I expected it but not so soon. I have to go-"

"Alone?"

"No, but are you in a fit state to come? Will it help?"

He could almost certainly walk and talk at the same time. He wasn't sure he could walk, talk and not shake at the same time. "It's probably not a good idea."

"And I need..." Sherlock paused.

He had needs too, of course, thought John, just not ordinary animal ones.

"Go. It's fine, it's absolutely fine."

"We haven't solved this problem yet."

"Oh yes, we, you have."

"Think about it properly, John, when I'm not around. Don't decide now, work it out logically. There are other options. And then tell me, text me." Sherlock had pulled on his scarf and coat, but he hesitated by the door.

"Go!" said John. "I've had thirty minutes of conversation this morning and distinct hints of tenderness. That's surely above average for a meaningless encounter."

Sherlock grinned and hurtled out.

Once he was gone, John went and slowly, methodically, changed Sherlock's sheets and sorted out both their bedrooms, because if Sherlock was working with Lestrade, you should always be prepared for a drug bust. And then, because the least he could do for Sherlock was to see if any other option would work, he found the current copy of Time Out and started flicking through it. Not the clubbing section, but the personal ads. There were a lot of other gay men out there. Here was one with a GSOH and his own business, who liked cinema and running. But there was no-one advertising with a bizarre sense of humour and his own consulting detective business, who liked running into danger and the sound of his own voice. Animals might be interchangeable, people weren't.

He waited to send the text though, because he could be patient. And Sherlock needed space at this stage of a case, to observe, to analyse, it wasn't fair to distract him, maybe even to cloud his judgement.

***

He had, of course, overestimated how long the case would take Sherlock, and when he went to send the text there was already a message for him.

 _This evening: clubbing, matchmaking, staying in? SH_

He texted rapidly back: _Staying in. Pizza and non-romantic film. John_ , and braced himself. He didn't enjoy arguments via text, he couldn't use the tone of voice and the smile that were his only effective weapons...Here came Sherlock's response.

 _Planning to join the RSPCA. Someone has to take care of dumb animals. SH_.

It took him nearly an hour to work out his reply, which was frankly ridiculous. But he had to show his gratitude, while leaving it unspoken, and also to make it clear what he was prepared to do...prepared not to do, not to try. At last he sent it: _Will get beer, pizzas and DVD. We don't need any extra tissues or nicotine patches. John_. He'd almost added _or condoms_ , but there was an outside possibility that Mycroft was intercepting Sherlock's texts. He put down the phone; he was shaking again.

He'd got what he'd never expected, and even what he thought he'd wanted, and it hadn't solved anything. Poor bloody stupid John, the ex-virgin rat, he told himself. Finally gets through the maze and pushes the right lever and just gets himself trapped again.

But no, he thought, I may be an animal, but I'm not just one. A rat doesn't know what the lever does before it presses it, but I read the label on it. The one that says: 'Provides possibly death-causing thrills. No supply of love.' And I am not trapped in a box, I do have...options. I can walk away if I want to. It's just that today, I choose not to.

***

Much later that evening, after the film, when John had had just enough beer to get his nerve up, but not enough to make him do anything stupid, he turned to Sherlock, sitting across from him, and said: "Last night you said the exchange of sex for love was wrong, stupid. And then you did what you did." He was deliberately calm, drawing on the medical training that had taught him that some situations were too important to let emotions get in the way of what needed to be done.

"There's no contradiction." Sherlock replied. "I said offering sex to get love was manipulative: stupid, but manipulative. But you love me whether I sleep with you or not."

Arrogant bastard, thought John, arrogant, accurate bastard.

"No, John," Sherlock went on, "last night was an exchange of love for...I'm afraid I'm going to have to be brutally accurate here and call it pity."

John kept his voice neutral. "You slept with me because you were sorry for me? I see."

"Yes. Now a human, a complex, emotionally confused human, could get terribly screwed up about that fact. A simple healthy animal, however, would realise-"

"- that motivations aren't really important if the sex is bloody marvellous."

"Exactly." And then Sherlock smiled and added: "And talking of animal appetites, yes you can have the rest of my pizza. I know what you've been taking surreptitious glances at for the last half hour, I am a detective, you know."

And John grinned and reached for the slice, because even if you couldn't get exactly what you wanted, you could still enjoy what was on offer.


End file.
